


Late-Night Dinner

by InNovaFertAnimus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, stress cooking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:23:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6810865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/pseuds/InNovaFertAnimus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes winding down is not that easy.</p>
<p>Written for a kinkmeme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late-Night Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Long live the kinkmeme!
> 
>  [Original prompt](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=1068160#cmt1068160)  
> 

Napoleon takes the pot from the stove. He doesn’t even have to try it to know that he messed it up again. A little too much salt, a drop too little wine, the texture not quite how it should be. With a spatula he clears out the risotto into the glass container waiting on the counter. He would like to throw it in the trash, but Illya hates wasting food. One load he could maybe dispose of without being noticed, but it’s far too late for that. Now that he thinks of it, he doesn’t really remember if it’s his fourth or fifth try already. Soon he will run out of ingredients, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll find something else to make. He has a few hours until the sun goes up again anyway, enough time to get innovative. 

He looks at the glass container, which is already full to the brim. Illya won’t be too happy about eating risotto for the next couple of days. On the other hand Napoleon never forces him to eat his left-overs, so it’s Illya’s own fault. Like it was his own fault that he triggered the trap on their way out of the facility. The one that got him almost killed today. 

With a sigh Napoleon grabs another shallot to start anew. He can still get it right. His eyes start to burn, but that is probably just the fumes or the lack of sleep or both. The knife slides from his fingers and he nicks his thump. With a curse he puts down the knife and takes a step back just to bump into a solid chest. He doesn’t even startle, just lets his head drop as he braces himself on the counter in front of him. He feels an arm sneaking around his middle and pull him upright again until his back is pressed to his partner’s front. There is no use in fighting the warmth seeping through the contact nor the realization that he could have lost that today. Illya rests his head on Napoleons shoulder as his second arm closes in on the other side to trap Napoleon in the embrace. “Risotto?” Napoleon feels his strength leaving him as he closes his eyes. “Mere attempts.” Illya hums softly in his ear. One of his hands wander down on Napoleon to capture his own. Illya brings it up to his face. Napoleon only remembers the small cut on his thumb when Illya presses a soft kiss to it. “Smells good to me.”

Napoleon lets his head fall back against Illya’s shoulder, suddenly too exhausted to keep it upright. “You don’t even like risotto.”

He feels Illya shrug against him. "I like everything you make, Cowboy.”

A tired laugh escapes Napoleon’s lips. “I’ll remind you next time you complain about my cooking.”

“I complain because you overdo it, not because it’s not good.” 

His embrace tightens a little, but it’s not uncomfortable. Usually Napoleon hates to feel dwarfed by Illya, but not when he wraps himself around him like this, an unbreakable shield between him and the rest of the world. 

“You come to bed?”

Napoleon forces himself to lift his head and open his eyes again. “In a while. I need to put all this away first.”

Illya’s arms stay firmly around his middle. “I’ll clean up, you go to bed.”

The soft tone betrays the steel underneath the words. Napoleon knows that arguing at this point is fruitless. He doesn’t have the strength anyway for that. He sighs. “Fine.” 

Illya releases him with a quick kiss on his temple and goes to work. 

By the time Napoleon leaves the bathroom and slips under the cover, Illya is still roaming around the kitchen. He contemplates getting up again, but he doubts that Illya would let him help. Stubborn idiot. With a sigh he closes his eyes. There should be darkness and silence greeting him, but instead he sees the fleeting images of their narrow escape and hears the gunshots following them. He should have detected the trap. It was obvious. Gaby would have killed Napoleon, if Illya wouldn’t have made it out there alive. His throat closes up and he turns to his side, drawing the covers further up and burying his face in the pillow. 

Illya’s steps are silent as he enters the bedroom later. Napoleon doesn’t turn around or even raise his head, when the mattress dips beside him. It’s ridiculous really. Napoleon is neither new to this line of work nor naïve. Death is always a possibility on every mission. Today shouldn’t upset him that much. Nothing even happened. 

He can feel Illya slide behind him, tugging at him softly to shift a little so Illya is once again pressed against his back. One arm sneaks under Napoleon’s head, the other is draped over his waist. It’s odd, how well they fit against each other. He can feel Illya’s breath soft against his neck, the heat that seems to radiate from everywhere other than his hands. It soothes Napoleon, having his partner so close. 

Illya’s voice is nothing more than a whisper against his skin. “I’m sorry.”

Napoleon can’t think of anything to say, so he brings up his hand to find Illya’s and intertwines their fingers. They are cold, as usual, but they are still there.


End file.
